


Ain't a Thing

by kaasknot



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: CBT, D/s, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, These boys are the kings of emotional constipation lemme tell you, Topping from the Bottom, erectile disfunction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:13:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3150167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaasknot/pseuds/kaasknot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like Steve can't get it up, alright? He <i>can</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't a Thing

**Author's Note:**

> You know how when you sit and think about Steve's health problems, and it occurs to you he probably has trouble getting an erection? And then it fuses with your headcanon of Steve Rogers: Power Bottom, and porn happens? You know what I mean?
> 
> Yeah.

It's not like Steve can't get it up, alright? He _can_.

It's just... he can't _always_. On the days when his heart's not doing so good--cold days, when the blood vessels in his hands and feet clamp down and his heart has to beat double-time to keep him from freezing; on hot days, when the heat and his crappy lungs drag him down; on regular, plain ol' _days_ , when palpitations leave him panting or he has to walk all the way to a job interview--those are the days Bucky Barnes cries, because those are the days Steve Rogers, saint Rogers, angel to half the neighborhood and laughingstock to the rest, gets _mean_.

Bucky sees the dark, frustrated look in Steve's eye when he gets home, sees how his shirt's unbuttoned and his trousers are gaping open, and he knows it's one of _those_ days, one of the days when Steve's spirit is willing, but his flesh just ain't. 

"For fuck's sake, Bucky, you lookin' for an engraved invitation?" Steve glares at him, a flush of color high on his cheeks, and oh, Bucky's a sinner, because he's half-hard already. He knows this song and dance, knows it's burrowed deep in the parts of himself he'd like to forget. He lowers his eyes, and sinks to his knees right there in the middle of the kitchen floor.

Now, don't misunderstand--Bucky's not careless about Steve's health. Neither of them are. But he's known Steve all his life, and he trusts Steve to know his limits. He's not a child to be coddled; he's a man full-grown, and besides--Steve would knock him into next week if he tried.

"Take off your shirt," Steve snaps. He hasn't stepped any closer, just stands there with his suspenders down around his thighs and the white edge of his underwear showing through his sagging flies. Bucky does as he's told. He trails his gaze up the pale strip of belly bared by Steve's open shirt as he fumbles with his buttons.

He's wearing jeans without suspenders, so when he pulls out his shirttails he just--lets it fall. Kneels there on the rough floorboards in his dirty undershirt, with a wet patch soaking through the front of his jeans. He dares a glance up.

Steve's blue eyes are black, his pouty girl's mouth open and wet. Bucky's cock jumps, and he knows Steve sees because Steve's brow comes down like thunderheads. "Get over here," he says.

Bucky gets it, he really does. If he couldn't get hard when he wanted he'd be mad at the world, too. And if it was anyone other than Steve getting pissy at him for popping wood he'd punch in their teeth--but he's got a weak spot when it comes to Steve Rogers, and _Jesus wept_ , is he beautiful when he gets mad. He shuffles his way over on his knees, wincing at the friction in his pants.

"May I?" he asks, his voice hoarse. Steve gives a short nod.

He parts Steve's trousers and the flies of his shorts, and pulls out his flaccid cock. His mouth waters in anticipation.

This ain't the first time they've done this, no sir. Bucky's got a thing for Steve's mouth, and he's pretty sure Steve has a thing for his, not that the weenie ever comes out and says so. Point is, they've both tasted the wares. And Bucky, maybe he's a weenie too, because it'll be a cold day in Hell before he'll ever admit out loud to liking the weight of Steve's prick on his tongue. Some things just aren't safe.

"What are you waiting for? Afraid it's too much for you?" Steve's tone is sharp, and there's undertones to it Bucky doesn't like. God, if he could somehow convince Steve that he's perfect, that he doesn't _need_ to get angry, doesn't have to prove whatever it is that big brain of his needs to prove--

But he can't, so he just sucks him down. 

There's a strength and durability in a hard-on, even if it's mostly a lie. Knee a guy in the nuts when he's up and ready, he'll crumple same as any man. But Bucky can't help but be gentle when Steve's soft in his mouth, can't help the careful way he teases the slit, or how he massages the tender flesh of the shaft with his tongue. Steve hisses and grabs his head, driving himself deeper, and Bucky just goes with it, nosing the crinkly little hairs at Steve's crotch. Steve's stomach muscles, scarce as they are, flutter. Bucky catches his wrist behind his back and holds tight, 'cause Steve hasn't said he can touch, yet, and he dearly wants to.

"Just like that," Steve mutters. "Shit, look at you, you're so desperate you'll go in for any cock, won't you?"

Bucky does his best to glare up at Steve, but the angle's awkward and Steve's holding his head in place. He lightly scrapes his teeth against the underside of his cock, instead. It sends Steve curling over him with a squeezed-sounding grunt, and Bucky has to clench his hands to keep from grabbing him.

"You little shit," Steve breathes, straightening. "That's how you wanna play it? Fine." He steps back, pulling out of Bucky's mouth. His flush has spread down to his neck, and he's staring at Bucky's lips. They feel warm and swollen; Bucky imagines they're red, wet with his own spit. "Christ," Steve whispers, then lunges forward, grabbing a handful of Bucky's hair and wrenching his head back.

Bucky lets out a strained groan, one that slides up to a squeak when Steve presses his shin against Bucky's erection. He jerks his hips up against the resistance, he can't help it; Steve twists his handful until tears wring from his eyes.

"Do. _Not_. Move without my permission. Do you understand me, Buck?"

"Yessir," Bucky breathes, gazing up at him. He swallows, and his Adam's apple feels like it bobs a mile, the way his neck is bent. He pants for air; pinned between the hand in his hair, the bony shin against his cock, and Steve's angry glower, all he can do is shiver. Goosebumps prickle down his back, and his nipples stiffen against the rough fabric of his undershirt. Steve presses closer, his knee digging into Bucky's solar plexus, and Bucky's lips part on a soundless gasp. Shocks of hot pleasure-pain flicker through his balls; it feels like the head of his johnson is about to pop off. Keeping still is agony. He shudders.

Steve's smirk is vicious. "Don't like that, huh? I bet it hurts, doesn't it."

"Please..."

"Please _what_." 

" _Sir_. Please, I need to move, sir."

Steve stares down at him, and his gaze flickers down further, to where Bucky's throbbing and hard against his leg, before meeting Bucky's eyes again. He shrugs. "So move." His grip doesn't slacken one bit.

Bucky frowns, confused; Steve's face is impassive. "I told you to move, Buck. You better start moving."

Bucky screws up his eyes and moves. Steve's shin is just as implacable as it was thirty seconds ago, but thrusting up against it, just shifting the pressure a hair, is--Jesus, it's _perfect_. Bucky humps up against Steve Rogers's leg like a dog, and he whimpers like one, too. He feels the heat of his blush stinging his cheeks.

"Not so proud, now, are you," Steve croons, and the fist in Bucky's hair loosens until he's brushing his fingers through the strands, scritching his fingernails against his scalp, and Bucky falls forward until his forehead is resting against the narrow cut of Steve's hipbone.

"Please, sir, I'm--can I--"

All of a sudden the heat of Steve's body, the sharp pleasure of his shin, disappear, and Bucky barely manages to pull his hands in front of him before he breaks his nose on the kitchen floor. He blinks up at Steve.

Steve is _furious_. "You will come when I _say_ you can come," he growls, then steps over Bucky's back and plants a knee between his shoulder blades. Bucky collapses back to the floor with a grunt. There's a dust-bunny of remarkable proportions under the bathtub. Steve wrenches his head up by his hair. "You didn't seem to get the memo, Buck, so I'll tell you now: everything you do, every thought you think, is _mine_. You don't take a _piss_ without my permission, do you understand?"

Bucky huffs out a heavy breath, and fights not to grind his hips down into the floor. "Yessir, I understand."

Steve lets go, and the knee disappears from his back. He feels the floorboards give under Steve's weight. "Stand up." Bucky clambers to his feet, keeping his eyes down as Steve circles around him. He's still got his pants undone, his particulars flopped out over his flies, and Bucky licks his lips.

Steve gets edgy in these moods, lashing and angry until he's walking the knife-edge of violence. There have been times he got Bucky worried, but Steve knows Bucky's limits about as well as he knows his own, and he's toed the line--God, he's toed right up to it, and flirted with stepping over--but he's never crossed it. Bucky trusts him, same as Steve trusts _him_ not to laugh when he can't get hard.

"Strip." Steve's pacing, restless; he reminds Bucky of a caged tiger he saw once at the circus. He skins off his undershirt and tosses it to the floor, then bends down to unlace his boots. He wobbles when his johnson gets caught in the crease of his thigh. The boots come off; his pants follow, and then he's standing in the altogether before Steve, who's raking his eyes over him like he's measuring him for a new suit.

"Touch yourself. Make it slow."

Bucky obediently wraps his hand around himself, breathing out a sigh of relief. He keeps his grip loose--just enough to ease the ache, but not enough to really get going. He feels a bubble of pre-come oozing up. He squeezes it out, because he knows Steve likes it when he gets wet. His eyelids grow heavy, and he runs his thumb over the head, smearing it around. He picks up the pace, just a little.

"Stop."

His gaze flicks to Steve, and he's still watching, the bastard, his eyes focused and almost--he almost looks hungry. Bucky shivers. He drops his hand back to his side.

The slap catches him completely by surprise. His cheek stings, and he stares at Steve with wide, shocked eyes.

Steve's jaw is set. "That's for hesitating."

Bucky ducks his head. "Sorry, sir." _Lord_ , but it burns. He wishes he could see it. He can feel the imprint of all four of Steve's fingers; Bucky's got fair Irish skin, same as Steve, and he knows he reddens up something fierce when Steve's got a mind to warm his backside. His cock throbs, and another drop of pre-come slips out. He stares at it: a tiny, clear pearl of fluid that hovers on the tip of his glans before gravity drags it down. It tickles all the way to his balls.

"Go lie on the bed," Steve orders. Bucky goes, his business bobbing in front of him with each step. Steve doesn't follow him in right away, so Bucky stays standing by the bedside, just because.

"Lie the fuck down, Barnes," Steve calls out from the other room. Bucky bites his lip to keep from laughing. He spread-eagles across the mattress, taking up as much space as possible, because it's rare when Steve's not curled in a ball next to him, hogging the blankets.

Steve comes in a moment later, his trousers done up in the front and a few lengths of rope in his hand. Bucky goes tense, his cock twitching again, and he lets out a shaky little sigh. He presses his lips together to keep the words in.

"Hands up," Steve says. "Grab the bedposts."

Bucky does as he says. It's an old wrought-iron bed, Steve's ma's old bed, in fact, and they keep the springs well-oiled. The rope is rough and scratchy--hemp, Bucky thinks, and he wonders where Steve got it before he decides he's maybe better off not knowing. Steve doesn't do it often, but he isn't above using his inexpressible air of earnestness (and those big doe-eyes) to get what he wants. Bucky's living proof of that.

Not that you'd know it, to look at Steve now. If anything, he looks like he should be wearing pinstripes and packing heat for the mob. He binds Bucky's hands to the posts, checking to make sure the ropes aren't too tight, then goes to tie his ankles down, too. Bucky's eyes flutter at the feeling of the fibers scraping against his inner wrists.

The sunlight through the curtains is golden, spilling the glory of late afternoon over Steve's face. His eyes are so blue; Bucky can't help watching him as he works. Bucky's prick is an angry red line of flesh, but he can't bring himself to care that much, not with the peeks of skin he gets every time Steve shifts. Steve tugs on the rope, and his shirt gaps to bare a flat, pink nipple before he moves and it disappears again. Bucky lets his head sink down into the pillows.

Steve's hand around his balls makes him jump.

"Jesus!" His hips stutter, and then he yelps, because Steve fucking _squeezes_.

"What did I tell you about talking out of turn?"

"Yeah, well, you just crushed my balls, so I kinda think we're even!"

Steve yanks them, and stars dance across Bucky's vision. He barely hears his own strung-out whimper.

"You don't talk without my permission, Buck," Steve says softly, and pulls again, this time more slowly. Bucky's breath shudders out of him. It's--it's like stretching his legs after sitting cramped all day, only with the uneasy awareness of suddenly vulnerable flesh.

A loud thump against the wall makes them freeze. The walls aren't as thin as they could be, not like their first place, but they still share a wall with the next-door neighbor's living room, and if they heard--

"You tryin'a lose our deposit, asshole?"

"Screw you, pal."

There's another scrape, then sound is muffled, and the voices move away. Bucky eases out his breath. He turns in time to see Steve, already bare-chested, shuck off his pants. And then he's climbing up on the bed to straddle Bucky.

Steve doesn't much like the way he looks, Bucky knows. He's self-conscious of his narrow chest and crooked back, and he hunches his shoulders when he's not whipping himself into a righteousness froth. But all of that pales in comparison to his shame about his impotence. Bucky doesn't understand it, but then, it's not his business to. He's here for Steve, not to figure Steve out. So while he shivers at the limp press of Steve's goods against his chest, he makes sure not to look anywhere but at his face, set and narrow as it is with nerves and sheer, stubborn cussedness.

Steve has stubborn cussedness down to a fine art. Really, it's a miracle Bucky has any hair left, what with the way Steve makes him want to pull it out by the roots.

"This is what we're gonna do," Steve says. "You're gonna carry on where you left off, and then I'm gonna take your cock. And Bucky? If you come before I say to we're gonna have problems."

"Yessir," Bucky breathes.

It's awkward, at first. Bucky slides down the bed as much as he can, and that helps. Steve looms overhead, bracing himself against the headboard, and feeds his cock between Bucky's lips. Bucky suckles on the tip for a moment, laving the sensitive head just to watch Steve's outstretched arm buckle, before he takes the rest of him in. It's no more than a mouthful. Steve's more of a grower than a shower, but Bucky doesn't mind; If he's being honest with himself, it's nicer when he doesn't have to fight his gag reflex to take Steve down to the root.

Steve's got his head thrown back, the tendons in his skinny neck standing out as he rocks his hips down. Bucky hums, deep and rumbling, and savors Steve's reedy gasp. His thighs tremble; he grabs Bucky's head and drags his face up for a better angle.

Steve can't get hard, but his body's trying: he's twitching on Bucky's tongue, and the salty tang of pre-come floods his mouth. Bucky hollows his cheeks and picks up the pace. He loves sucking Steve off, but he's so hard it's starting to hurt. Steve smirks down at him like he knows exactly what he's doing.

He doesn't stop him doing it, though.

When he comes it's with a little "Hah!" like he's been caught by surprise. He drives himself as deep as he can into Bucky's mouth, and the bitter taste of his come spills across the back of Bucky's tongue. Bucky swallows it down.

He pulls out, half-slipping off Bucky's chest before he catches himself. A thin string of come clings to the head of his cock; it stretches for a heartbeat, then breaks off, slicking down Bucky's chin. It's still hot from Steve's body. Bucky parts his lips, but he keeps from licking it off because Steve's staring at his mouth with a glassy-eyed, unfocused sort of triumph and Bucky knows whatever it is Steve's looking for, he's just found it. Bucky drinks in the sight of him in return: his flush has spread across his chest and his lips are bitten red. His limp little cock twitches against Bucky's nipple.

Bucky closes his eyes and concentrates on not coming right then and there.

Steve's lips against his are a surprise. He's gentle, licking away the spunk before kissing his way back up to Bucky's mouth. They make out for a while, tasting Steve's spend and each other, and gradually it gets deeper and more heated until Bucky's trembling. Steve pulls away, his eyes deep and tender as he gazes down at Bucky. "You did good, Buck," he says. "Let's see if you can keep it up."

 _Not gonna be a problem_ , Bucky thinks, but he values his balls, so he damn well doesn't say it.

Steve slips down his body until he's even with Bucky's nipples. He's probably the only person aside from Rhonda Schwartz who knows just how sensitive Bucky's nipples are, and unlike Rhonda Steve isn't coy about using that knowledge. He suckles one nub of flesh after the other, teasing them to attention while Bucky writhes, and he finishes each round with two quick nips that leave Bucky gasping. Each lick, each breath Steve plays across his spit-slick skin, sends spikes of pleasure shooting right down to his balls. He whines.

"Sir, p-please..."

"Yeah? What do you want?"

Steve bites down on Bucky's right nipple, rosy and tight beneath his ministrations, and Bucky keens. "Touch me, sir, please!"

He rests his chin on Bucky's chest. "I _am_ touching you, Buck."

Bucky grits his teeth and stares at their water-stained ceiling.

Steve smirks. "You mean here, though, don't you." He reaches down and grabs the head of Bucky's cock. The shock of his cool hand against Bucky's inflamed skin is almost too much. He means to reply, he really does, but all that comes out is a strangled groan.

"Hush, now," Steve says. "Don't want the neighbors to hear." He strokes his hand along Bucky's shaft, cool and dry, maddeningly slow and too light to do more than tease, and Bucky stares at Steve's dear face, normally so considerate, but now a bastard to end them all. God, Bucky loves him. He bites his lip to keep quiet.

Steve hunkers down so he's kneeling between Bucky's spread knees, and slowly--so, so slowly--closes his lips over the head of Bucky's cock. Bucky's mouth falls open on a silent moan. Steve's hands may be cold, but his mouth his hot, and Bucky loses himself in the liquid heat until he's tensing, his orgasm curling in the bottom of his gut.

"S-sir, I'm--"

Steve's mouth leaves him in a blink, and then those cool fingers are dragging his balls away from his body.

"Not yet," Steve says. Bucky hisses through his teeth. Pre-come drools out of him, smearing over his belly; it's not _enough_. Steve, the ratfink, just trails the tip of a finger up his cock. Bucky tugs against the ropes holding him spread out, and his hands fist against the ache to touch himself. Steve runs his open palms up Bucky's thighs.

"I think that's about enough of that," he says. Bucky looks up at him, hope blooming in his chest. Steve snorts at him and shifts forward, tilting Bucky's erection up, and starts to lower himself down to meet it, just like that, without even stopping to open himself.

Bucky may be half out of his mind from need, but he's not so far gone he'll let that happen. He bucks his hips, unseating Steve. "Hey!" he snaps, his cock flopping back to his stomach.

Steve's face darkens, but Bucky glares right back. "No way, Steve," he says. "Not unless you do it right."

Steve stares at him for a moment, and Bucky can see the gears turning behind his eyes, but Bucky's not joking, and he's not gonna let up. Sure, it can be fun going dry--but it's not a thing to rush, and it's doubly bad when Steve's in this mood, when he's trying to punish his own body as much as Bucky's. He can do whatever he wants to Bucky, but Bucky won't let him hurt himself.

Steve glowers, but he doesn't fight. Lord knows in a back alley scrape he won't stop sassing 'til he's unconscious, but when it's between the two of them, Steve Rogers isn't too big to know when he's beaten. He reaches across to the bedside table and pulls out the jar of Vaseline. He holds it up. "There. Happy, now?"

"Yes, _sir._ " Bucky watches while Steve grudgingly slicks himself up, taking his time to properly stretch open the muscle, and he digs his thumbnail into the tender meat of his fingertip when Steve slicks his cock. He watches as Steve lowers himself meet it, cranes his neck and watches the swollen head disappear inside Steve's body.

He made Steve slow down and lube up, but he couldn't have made him slow down now to save his own skin. Steve takes off at a punishing pace, and _Christ Jesus_ Bucky wishes he had his hands free so he could touch that hot-silk skin. He tilts his hips instead, doing his level best to drive into that spot that makes the world white out.

Not a minute later and Steve's started shaking and biting his lip. Bucky grabs the ropes so he can grab _something_. His toes are curling up, and it shouldn't be possible for him to get any harder, but there he is. He's past baseball stats, now; all he can do is hold on and hope he doesn't come too quickly.

Steve fumbles for his cock, stripping his flat tire like this is his last, best chance to get off before Judgment Day, and yeah, Bucky almost loses it right there, seeing the soft, pink head slipping in and out of his hand. Then all of a sudden Steve's clamping down, and weak spurts of white dribble out of his slit, and he gives this faint, wheezing grunt before he lets go of his cock to brace himself against Bucky's chest. And Bucky, his eyes almost roll back in his skull because fuck him if Steve didn't manage to get a semi, after all.

His abs are screaming, and he's starting to get a cramp in his thigh, and he's _so close he's about to shoot off right there_. "Fuck," he squeezes out. He's starting to lose circulation in his fingers he's holding on so tight.

Steve, he just lifts up his head from where it's been drooping like a wilted flower, and he pulls a cocky smirk outta thin air. "Y'alright, there, Buck?"

"Please, Stevie, oh fucking God please let me come--"

"I don't know..."

Bucky has his lips clamped together so he doesn't scream, so the wail he lets out is mostly through his nose. He's sweating through the sheets, and tears are starting to fill up the corners of his eyes, and if Steve doesn't give his permission in the next ten seconds it's gonna be a moot point.

"Yeah, alright. You can come."

The air in Bucky's lungs huffs out in a sharp gasp, and it's like that that he comes, bucking up to bury himself in Steve's ass without even the breath to shout. Steve rides it out, steadying himself on Bucky's spasming thighs, and Bucky swears he sees God and all his fucking angels before he falls back to himself, shaky and weak and spent. His head flops to the side and he lets his hands hang loose against the ropes. He winces when Steve slides off.

He fades out for a while. He's distantly aware of Steve cleaning them off, and of Steve's cool fingers against his wrists and ankles, smoothing lotion into the chafe-marks. He comes back when Steve helps him lower his arms back down, and he winces at the cramps in his shoulders. "Shh, I've got you," Steve says, running his hands over Bucky's skin. He combs his fingers through his hair, and pushes him up onto his side so he can cradle him from behind. Any other time and Bucky'd give him shit about being too small to wrap around him, but right now he's burrowing into his pillow, and Steve is warm behind him.

Steve presses a kiss to his shoulder. "Thanks, Bucky." His fingers trail lightly over Bucky's stomach.

"Ain't a thing, Stevie." Bucky's sinking fast, wrapped in Steve's scent and his arms, so he captures Steve's fingers in his own while he still has two brain cells to rub together and draws his hand up to kiss Steve's palm. He feels the hot gust of Steve's breath between his shoulder blades, and the press of his forehead right after, and then Bucky's gone, dead asleep.

***

END

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://kaasknot.tumblr.com/post/107643673869/aint-a-thing)!


End file.
